can we do a Solzhenitsyn-esque, post-apocalyptic, walmart-as-gubmit territorial zombie saga in the same vein as i am legend, but with a giant yellow zombie smiley as the antagonist? no? fine. im still in.

canaan wrote:can we do a Solzhenitsyn-esque, post-apocalyptic, walmart-as-gubmit territorial zombie saga in the same vein as i am legend, but with a giant yellow zombie smiley as the antagonist? no? fine. im still in.

I'm not sure that I can play warz neext week, hold down my job and do this....but I like that idea.

I think we'd be better off if we had structure to the story telling. Like every round of writing was a chapter and the next chapter would start with a different starter so everybody would get a chance to lay the scene, build the act, finish the chapter, etc. our problems have come when people don't know how to progress the story and do the "skip me" spiel.

If we do 6 chapters, let's say, we can tighten up the story and make a full tale. If we feel the 6 chapters was too short, we do more the next go 'round.

canaan wrote:our problems have come when people don't know how to progress the story and do the "skip me" spiel.

I'm not sure why people feel they need to know how to proceed. I expect to be thrown for a loop by the previous writer (after all, I was writing after you in the Ulu story).

I don't feel that there should be much "knowing" to it. Contributors should just write. Try to be interesting. "Knowing" is useful when one is writing a work alone. Not so much in this scenario, IMO.

One thing I try to do is leave my contribution at a moment of tension, or in a place where a question has to be answered or a plot twist delineated or resolved. IMO it gives the next writer something to do. The next writer can deal with that issue, or, if the next writer wants to go in a different direction, he or she can give a twist to the answer or maybe downplay the tension or the importance of the question and move into another area.

Yeah maybe keeping it as simple as possible would be the best idea. Just picking up where someone left off might be the best idea. Alot of the skips where due to the people thought they couldn't write concerning the topic matter. Science fiction or western. In the end the author can take it where they want it to, character development or add to the "action" of the story.

I read over the first two, really cool stuff to be honest. This seems like fun, I'm definitely in. I'd suggest perhaps starting a new story. I like what you posted, and would be willing roll with that.

Prologue wrote:The year is 2356. The world, after decades of political strife, is left with a jaded civilization. No one laughs. There is no room for light-heartedness in such a dark, depressing world. In the remote valleys of New Zealand, however, a small, unfunded pack of archolologists seek out to bring a humorous light to the world desperately in need of a smile.

A middled-aged man donning a faded pseudo-denim Jeep hat sits in a weathered lean-to six miles south of the Awatere Valley. His face worn from too much sun and gray-haired from too much apathy. As he fiddles the rudimentary cigar around his inner cheek, he peruses the inspection report from the graveyard shift archolologist, Franz Redwillinand. The report reads as such:

Franz' Report -- September 4th, 2356 wrote:Spencer,

Artifact 1A had a significant amount of a sticky residue caking the earth to its shaft. The HEPA vacuum malfunctioned and blew up in one of the worker's faces. We worried for his safety. We used the soft bristle brushes we talked about earlier, After a quick light wash with a damp terry cloth, the residue quickly wore away from the piece. We have also unearthed 87 black oval seeds that contain the same residue. After an ancillary inspection, we've concluded the seeds to be some type of a watermelon seed--very strange.

Onto the dimensions of the Artifact 1A: The shaft, pending an official testing, seems to be made of a solid oak, not native to this region. The inscription on the bottom of the 27.5" shaft is incomplete. What we have deciphered is minimal at best. "G _ _ L(?) _ _ H E _" is all we could figure out on the first line and the 2nd line is much worse. We are only sure of "-O-" is legible, and we are not sure if the 'O' is a number or a letter. Perhaps you can do better. The "head" of the piece, what we are calling "the block" is a wooden cube, unsure of its origin, measuring 9 inches in length, 4 inches in height, and 4 inches in width. Official weight is unknown, but the piece has a considerable load. On a most base level, It is safe to presume the artifact is a mallet of some sort, but it looks as if it could also be a part of a bigger machine.

Injury Report: 2 pit workers were deemed unfit to work the 2nd shift of the day when they both, in unison, slipped on the outer coverings of their bananas and fell face first into a pile of the worker mule's defecations. We do not suspect their injuries to be long-term. The on-site medic released them shortly before the end of their shifts. We do not anticipate them to miss tonight's shift.

Talk to you this evening,F. Redwillinand

Spencer places the report in a makeshift binder with the other reports and removes his glasses. He leans over the artifact and begins to examine the piece. Ann Canaan, his longtime associate then enters the tent, startling the middle-aged purveyor of ancient LOL's.

Spencer: Jesus, Ann. Don't sneak up on m...

Ann: Oh my God, do you know what that is?

Rushing over to the artifact, Ann's eyes widen with a sense of surprise...

Spencer: It seems slightly curved to the right. Do you know its purpose?

Ann: Well, according to the Archolology Cololodex, which, as you know, was found down that rabbit hole in Albuquerque, it is an artifact of speakable power. Unfortunately, we don't know what that power is.

Spencer raised his head up, only to find that his ear and part of his cheek were now coated in the sticky residue.

Spencer: It seems slightly softer and more malleable now than Franz' report claimed. How is that possible with wood?

Ann: Well, Franz worked into the early morning. Sometimes artifacts like this are affected by the warmer, moister air. Morning wood is often harder. But we should be looking for its partner.

Spencer: Partner?

Ann: Yes. There is suppose to be a matching artifact that accompanies this. It's called "The Hammer."

They both looked around but saw nothing at the dig site. Spencer reached up with a towel dampened with Goo-Gone to clean the residue off of his face. As he was doing that, his gaze traveled upward into the branches of the trees which surrounded them. He noticed something far up in the trees. He pointed it out to Ann. It was a spherical object which could easily have been confused as a nest. It seemed to have an opening at the bottom.

Spencer noticed a bulging of the blood vessels in his eyes, but passed it off as a side effect of his significant morphine habit. He had picked that up in Thailand as a young professional, on his first research expedition. Along with a few other diseases.

Ann: Spencer, I don't mean to alarm you, but there's blood seeping from the corners of your eyes.

Spencer: ****, I rubbed my face after touching the residue. Do you think?

"Ann, what the hell is that sound!" Spencer screamed over top of the continuous, annoying sound.

"It's your alarm clock, Spencer!" Ann retorted, covering her own ears and shouting at the top of her lungs.

"Wha - oh," and like that Spencer was jerked back to consciousness. Spencer sat up in bed, a sweat forming across his brow. He lulzed to himself as he laid back down, breathing heavily. "What in the hell was that..." he thought. He rolled over, and slowly rose from bed, naked.

The artifact, dubbed "1A," was on his workbench, in his dilapidated apartment. He picked it up, carefully studying it. Something about, residue? Oak? Japanese? Perhaps it had been the trip to Sapporo Steakhouse with his colleague and mistress Ann the previous night. A wild night of passionate love making, and then Ann suddenly leaving would be enough to cause crazy dreams.

Spencer had been studying archaeology for decades, and had never once heard of "The Sledge." Ann had referenced a specific use tied to ancient storytelling and folklore revolving around comedic plots. Stories that had been told for centuries prior to the current crop of comedians. Spencer thought of the failures like Dane Cook, who had basically just been a loud voice for what everyone else was thinking. Spencer hiccupped, definitely a result of the Sake he had downed last night. It was going to be a long day.

. . .

A black Excursion raced down Highway 1 towards the Pentagon. From the front seat a man in a black suit and sunglasses spoke to Ann, who was sitting in the back.

"Normally, when we have discovery of this magnitude, we employ various types of disinformation to make other professionals lose interest. Your falsified reports of "The Sledge," must never be known to your colleagues, no matter how..." he paused and continued upon lowering his sunglasses and shooting her a piercing gaze, "...close you may be to them. Do you understand?"

The Excursion slowed to a parade route pace as they reached the front entrance to what the old United State of America called "The Pentagon"--Ann smirked at the garishness of the structure. Americash prided itself on its function over form. It was a sign of the AfterWar Era. Technical writing replaced free form; Kids read Operating Manuals in their spare time--as little as that may be. For the sake of clarity, the year is 2356, but Americash refers to the years in reference to The Great War. This, by that standard, is the year of our leader, 310 A.W.E..

The Excursion, that looks more of a Mad Max-ian tank trolls through the 3 security check points with little-to-no question and parks near an old service door. The driver and his compatriot exit the vehicle, open Ann's door, and pulls her hurriedly from the automobile. She is concerned, but confident at the situation at hand. She is helped into a dark room with a single desk. A victrola in the corner plays a certain musak of calm, stringed instruments that doesn't break the tension one iota. She is placed at the desk with a writing utensil. A single sheet of paper with the heading "Visual Manual: Artifact 1A" and she begins to write, without being told to.

"Shaft of oak. Handle of polypropylene. 27.5 inches in length..."

Ann continued to explicate her memory of what the artifact looked like, what it felt like, what it smelled like. As she finished, the lone door opened up and there was Spencer, sweating and scared.

"ANN! LET'S GO! I HAVE THE SLEDGE. WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE. THEY ARE GOING TO DESTROY IT!"

Without hesitation, Anne crumpled the paper in her left hand and made for the door. When they reach the beat up, up armored Jeep Wrangler, she tosses the visual manual in the backseat and they crash through the seurity checkpoints with a single blanket covering what Ann already knows to be the Sledge. A line of Excursions soon follows them as they make their way towards the Maryland countryside. They quickly leave the main thoroughfares and head off-trail. It is their only hopes of dodging the Americash Imperial Guard.

<place holder before redwill posts>I have a super busy day tomorrow (including a phone interview in the AM) and won't be able to get back here until Wednesday evening. skip me, if that makes sense for the flow.</place holder before redwill posts>

They traveled headlong through the countryside for a hundred miles or more. Hours on end of spine-jarring jolting over what were once freeways, byways, culs-de-sac, overgrown lawns, swimming pools, condominiums, single-family houses, sparkling boathouses, chicken houses, outhouses, waffle houses, Gregory Houses. It didn't take them long to lose the government behemoths, but they kept going.

Finally, they stopped on a forested, boulder-strewn hill. Ann and Spencer got out, stretched, and assessed their situation. "Well, we have the Sledge and each other." Spencer said. "Not much more. But at least we still have the Wrangler." Just then the oil pan fell out of the Wrangler, the rear axle broke, all four tires burst, the Jeep badge fell into the dirt, and the vehicle started belching smoke as it quietly whimpered its way into death.

"OK," Ann said. "Give me the Sledge."

"Are you sure?"

"Give me the Sledge, Spencer. I must have the Sledge."

Spencer handed the Sledge over to her. She handled it expertly. She whispered to it and stroked its glistening shaft. She hummed a tuneless tune which Spencer did not recognize at first, but then caught on. She worked on it for what seemed hours.

Nothing.

Suddenly, they heard voices from below. Spencer thought he recognized them, but wasn't sure from where. As Spencer and Ann crouched down, they saw two people down the hill. A young boy and an older man were laughing and walking amongst the bushes. The young man was bouncing an oblong object -- a ball of sorts -- on his knee. "Hey old man!" he shouted. He threw the ball, but the old man's reactions were too slow. The ball dipped too low for the old man to reach and it struck him solidly in his crotch.

"Ooof!" shouted the old man as he crumpled to the ground.

At the top of the hill, Ann and Spencer started chuckling and chortling. They tried to contain their laughter, but they couldn't. They stammered. They sputtered. They snorted. Snot shot out of their noses. Finally, they couldn't contain themselves and they roared in open glee. They laughed out loud, heedless of who could hear them.